The Girl in the Fog Page 24

  And indeed, as soon as the crowd saw that the car was turning into the drive of their house, they started applauding. Some even let out cheers of encouragement.

  Levi was the first to get out. He opened the back door to reveal the Martini family, at last reunited and happy, for the benefit of the photographers and cameramen. Clea was the second person to get out of the car, followed by Monica and finally the teacher. As the applause and cheers grew in volume, they seemed in a daze. They hadn’t expected this.

  Martini looked around. While the flashes went off, briefly lighting up his careworn face, he recognised many of his neighbours. They were crying his name and waving. The Odevises were there, too, all of them, and the head of the family, who not so long ago had slandered him on television, was now trying to attract his attention and bid him welcome. Martini didn’t stop to think about the hypocrisy of it all. Preferring to show that he didn’t bear any grudges, he raised his arm to thank those present.

  Once they were inside the house, Martini went straight to the sofa. He was tired, his legs hurt and he needed to sit down. Monica gave him a hand, supporting him on one side. She helped him to sit, then lifted his feet onto a pouffe and took off his shoes. It was a gesture of great tenderness such as he would never have expected from his daughter. ‘Would you like me to bring you something? A cup of tea, a sandwich?’

  He stroked her cheek. ‘Thanks, darling, I’m fine like this.’

  Clea, in the meantime, was hyperactive. ‘I’ll make lunch right away. You will eat with us, won’t you, Signor Levi?’

  ‘Of course,’ Levi replied, knowing he couldn’t refuse the invitation. As Clea headed for the kitchen, he turned to his client. ‘After we eat, the two of us have some important things to talk about.’

  Martini already knew what his lawyer was going to say, the speech he would make. ‘Of course,’ he replied.

  For days now, he had been stuck in this damned hotel room in Avechot. He’d had to unpack his bags and remain ‘at the disposal of the authorities’. The formula chosen by Mayer was perfect: it meant everything and nothing. They didn’t have enough to charge him yet, because the investigation into his conduct was still in progress, but at the same time he couldn’t leave because the prosecutor might still need to question him. Vogel wasn’t afraid things would move quickly. The idea that he had falsified the evidence that had led to Martini’s arrest was only a hypothesis, and one that was hard to prove. The official version was vague, talking only of ‘accidental contamination’ of the evidence. But when it was put together with the Derg case, the episode was bound to put an end to his career.

  As he walked about the room, moving from the bathroom to the bed and back to the bathroom, it occurred to him that they probably wouldn’t dismiss him. They would just make sure he resigned, to soften the effect of the scandal that was now engulfing even the higher echelons of the police. He would leave quietly, for what would be described as ‘personal reasons’. In this sense, the man in the fog was helping him. Right now, the attention of the media and public opinion was on the monster, relegating everything else into the background. That was why Vogel had to be clever and negotiate the conditions of his own exit from the scene.

  But that wasn’t enough for him.

  He couldn’t swallow the fact that they were getting rid of him like this. For years, he had solved cases that had earned him headlines in the newspapers, and for years, his chiefs had taken advantage of his successes. They had posed beside him at conclusive press conferences, taking part of the credit and using it to advance their own careers. The bastards! Now that he needed them to save his arse, where were they?

  The main reason he was so angry was the press conference that Mayer – a woman who used to claim she didn’t like to appear on television – had called and which had been broadcast on all the networks the previous evening.

  ‘From this moment on, the investigation is being resumed with increased vigour,’ she had said. ‘We have a new lead, and we will also do justice to the six girls who disappeared before Anna Lou.’ It was an idle promise: she must have known that, after thirty years, it would be almost impossible.

  And when someone had asked if the police would now be pursuing the man in the fog, it was Officer Borghi – that ingrate – who had replied. ‘You journalists like coming up with these sensational names to excite the public’s imagination. I prefer to think that he has a face and an identity and isn’t simply a monster. That’s the only way we’ll catch him.’ The boy had adapted quickly, Vogel thought. Maybe he’d underestimated him. But he still needed his mother to blow his nose, he’d never be able to stand the pressure.

  What truly infuriated him was the aura of sanctity in which Martini was now wrapped. The transition from ‘monster’ to ‘victim of the system’ had been almost immediate. Part of it was the fact that the media had a lot to apologise for: they could well be sued for libel. Those reporters who had been lynching Martini for weeks had now come after Vogel. That was why, although he was forced to remain in Avechot, he couldn’t move from this damned hotel room. The hordes waiting for him outside wanted nothing better than to crucify him.

  But he wouldn’t go quietly with his head bowed. He had thought of a way out that was more honourable and, above all, advantageous for him. If he had to go, then he would get what he could out of it. Money would at least partly soothe his frustration and massage the wound to his ego. Yes, that was the right idea.

  He just had to recover a certain object.

  After lunch, he had said he felt very tired. So he had apologised to Clea, Monica and Levi and gone up to the bedroom to rest. He had slept for almost five hours, and when he woke he hoped that the lawyer had gone. He wasn’t yet ready to listen to the speech Levi was dying to make. But when he went down to the living room, he was still there. It had been dark for a while outside, and Levi was sitting on the sofa next to Clea. They were holding steaming cups of tea in their hands and chatting. When they saw him at the top of the stairs, his wife stood up and went to help him. She walked him to the armchair.

  ‘I was sure you were going to sleep until tomorrow morning,’ Levi said, displaying his usual smile.

  ‘You never give up, do you?’ Martini replied, having guessed his game.

  ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘All right, then tell me what you have to and let’s have done with it.’

  ‘I’d like the whole of your family to be present, if possible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I know it’s going to be hard to make you see reason, and I need all the support I can get.’

  Martini snorted. But Clea took his hand. ‘I’ll go and call Monica,’ she said.

  Soon, they were all gathered in the living room.

  ‘All right,’ Levi began. ‘Now that all the interested parties are here, I can tell you that you’re an idiot.’

  Martini laughed in surprise. ‘Don’t you think I’ve already been insulted enough?’

  ‘Well, let’s put it this way: it’s definitely the insult that most corresponds to reality.’

  ‘Why’s that? Come on, let’s hear it.’

  Levi crossed his legs and put the cup of tea down on the coffee table. ‘Those people owe you a debt,’ he said, pointing outside. ‘They were about to ruin your life and, from what I can see, they almost succeeded.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Sue the prison for damages, for a start. And the Ministry. And then ask for a huge amount of compensation for how the police investigation against you was conducted.’

  ‘I got justice in the end, didn’t I?’

  But Levi wouldn’t listen to him. ‘And that’s not all,’ he went on. ‘The media are just as responsible for what happened as the police. They put you on trial. Worse still, they passed sentence on you without giving you the chance to defend yourself. They also have to pay.’

  ‘But how?’ Martini asked, sceptically. ‘They’ll plead the freedom of the press and get away with it.’
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  ‘But they have to save face with the public, or they’ll lose credibility – and ratings. And besides, people want to hear your version, to celebrate your regained freedom with you … Even to adulate you, if necessary.’

  ‘Should I ask to go on TV to rehabilitate my image?’

  Levi shook his head. ‘No. You should be paid for that, that’s the only way you’ll really be compensated.’

  ‘I should sell interviews to the highest bidder – is that what you’re saying?’ Martini’s tone was horrified. ‘As I told Stella Honer once, I’m not going to make money from the Kastners’ tragedy.’

  ‘This isn’t about making money from the Kastners’ tragedy,’ Levi retorted. ‘It’s about making money from your tragedy.’

  ‘It’s the same thing. I just want to forget this business. And to be forgotten.’

  Levi turned to look at Clea and Monica, who up until now had remained silent.

  ‘I know you’re a good man,’ Clea said gently to her husband. ‘And I understand your reasons. But those bastards hurt you.’ She uttered these last words with unexpected anger.

  Martini turned to Monica. ‘Do you also agree?’

  The girl nodded, eyes full of tears.

  Levi picked up the briefcase he had next to him and took out some sheets of paper. ‘This is a contract from a publishing company. They’re suggesting you write a book about your story.’

  ‘A book?’ Martini said, surprised.

  Levi smiled. ‘You’re still a literature teacher, aren’t you? It shouldn’t take long. And when the book comes out, there’ll be invitations to appear on TV, interviews in the press and online. I’m sure you’ll find that easier to accept when you have a book to promote.’

  Martini shook his head, amused. ‘You’ve painted me into a corner,’ he said. Then he looked once again at his wife and daughter and sighed. ‘All right, but it mustn’t last ad infinitum. I want to finish with all this as soon as possible, all right?’

  At eleven in the evening, Borghi was still sitting at his desk in the operations room. All the others had already left, and the desk lamp was the only light in the big empty gym. He was studying the media reports on the six girls who had gone missing before Anna Lou Kastner. Their profiles were so similar, the idea that they were dealing with a serial killer was all too plausible. The killer had returned after thirty years to strike again, and this time he had deliberately drawn attention to himself – what else was the point of shooting that video? – as if to take credit for his crimes.

  But why?

  It was this very point that Borghi couldn’t explain. Why let so many years go by? Of course, it was quite possible that he had struck again in the meantime, somewhere else, or that something beyond his control had prevented him from doing so. For instance, he might have served a long sentence for another crime and had resumed his activities on his release. But he had changed his modus operandi. In the first six cases, he had protected his own anonymity, in the seventh he had sought attention. True, thirty years earlier the media hadn’t been so prepared to give maniacs the limelight, but all the same it struck Borghi as strange.

  That afternoon, he had been back to see Beatrice Leman. The woman who for so long had preserved the documentation on the case in the hope that someone would knock on her door and ask her about it had greeted him with unusual coldness. The first few times, Borghi had felt that she genuinely wanted to cooperate with the police. After this last visit, he was no longer so sure.

  ‘I’ve told you all I know,’ she had said curtly from the doorway, not moving her wheelchair one centimetre to let him in. ‘Now leave me alone.’

  It wasn’t true. She was hiding something. He had already discovered that she had tried to contact Vogel several times in the days following Anna Lou Kastner’s disappearance. Why? She had said she’d only wanted to ask him for an interview, and Vogel had denied having met her. But they were both telling lies. Except that Borghi understood why Vogel had lied: he wanted to avoid getting into any more trouble, for example, for conducting a parallel investigation without informing his superiors. But what reason did Leman have to lie? In addition, she had received a package a while earlier, as they had discovered during a check. This was odd, because she didn’t see anyone these days and never received any mail. What had the package contained? Was it something to do with Vogel?

  Before Leman had closed the door in his face that afternoon, Borghi had glanced inside the house and something had immediately caught his eye. In the ashtray next to the front door, along with the usual cigarette ends – the brand that Leman smoked endlessly – were those of another brand. Stella Honer had been there, Borghi had thought. So that was the reason Leman was keeping silent. She had sold her story. He didn’t blame her. For years, she had suffered indifference and solitude. Everyone had forgotten about her and the battles she had fought through her own newspaper. Now she had an opportunity to get her own back.

  As he was carefully reading through the report on the first of the missing girls, Katya Hillman, a noise echoed through the gym. Alarmed, Borghi looked up. But because of the desk lamp, he couldn’t see anything. So he swivelled the lamp round to point towards the back of the room. He still couldn’t figure out where the noise had come from. But he noticed a light running under the door of the changing room.

  He got up and went to check.

  He opened the door slowly and saw a shadowy figure doing something next to a cupboard, a torch in his hand. Borghi took out his gun. ‘Stop right there,’ he said calmly, aiming the weapon.

  The figure froze. Then he raised both arms and started to turn.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Borghi asked as soon as he recognised him. ‘You can’t come in here.’

  Vogel put on his falsest smile. ‘I saw you on TV, you know? You’re good, you’ve got what it takes.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Borghi repeated.

  ‘Don’t be hard on your teacher,’ Vogel said, pretending to be sullen. ‘I just came to get something that belongs to me.’

  ‘This isn’t your office any more, and everything that’s in this room has been sequestered for the purposes of the investigation into your conduct.’

  ‘I know the rules, Officer Borghi. It’s just that sometimes officers do favours for their colleagues.’

  Vogel’s mellifluous tone was starting to get on his nerves. ‘Show me what you took from that cupboard.’

  ‘It’s confidential.’

  ‘Show it to me right now,’ Borghi said defiantly. He was trying to appear resolute. He still had the gun in his hands, although he was no longer pointing it.

  Vogel slowly lowered his left hand and opened his coat, then with equal calm slipped his right hand into the inside pocket and took out his black notebook.

  ‘Put it on the table,’ Borghi said.

  Vogel did as he was told.

  ‘Now I must ask you to leave the building.’

  Borghi didn’t take his eyes off Vogel as he walked towards the exit. He was sure the special agent would want to have the last word – as indeed he did.

  ‘We could have made a great team, you and I,’ he said contemptuously. ‘But maybe it’s better this way. Good luck, kid.’

  As soon as he had gone, Borghi lowered his weapon and sighed. Then he approached the table on which Vogel had placed the notebook. He had always been curious to know what Vogel was constantly writing down. He was fascinated by that method of working, which gave the impression that nothing escaped Vogel. But when he opened the book, he discovered that the pages were filled with obscene drawings. Explicit sex scenes, as vulgar as they were childish. He shook his head incredulously. Vogel was definitely mad.

  As he walked in the deserted open space in front of the school gym, Vogel congratulated himself on the clever way he had made Borghi believe that he had gone back there to get his notebook. He didn’t care what the young officer would think when he discovered the contents. What mattered much more was what he had really taken from t
he cupboard.

  He took out his mobile phone, made a call and waited for the reply. ‘Twenty-five minutes before the others,’ he said. ‘I’m still keeping my word.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Stella asked irritably. ‘You have nothing more to sell me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Vogel instinctively lifted his hand to the pocket of his coat. ‘I bet Beatrice Leman told you about a diary.’

  Stella said nothing. Good, Vogel thought: she was interested.

  ‘Actually she didn’t tell me much,’ Stella admitted cautiously.

  He had guessed correctly: the two women had met. ‘A pity.’

  ‘How much do you want?’ Stella asked straight out.

  ‘We’ll talk about details like that when the time is right. But I also have an added request.’

  Stella laughed. ‘You’re no longer in a position to dictate conditions.’

  ‘But it isn’t much,’ Vogel said ironically. ‘I heard that after you ruined me with your scoop, the network gave you a studio show all of your own. Congratulations. Now you won’t have to freeze your arse off on location as a correspondent.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. Are you asking me to invite you onto my show?’

  ‘And I want someone else with me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Loris Martini.’

  22 February

  Sixty-one days after the disappearance

  He was sitting in a reclining chair in front of a mirror surrounded by brilliant white lights. He had Kleenex stuck in the collar of his shirt in order not to get it dirty. A make-up girl was applying foundation to his cheeks with a soft brush and Vogel was savouring the touch of it with his eyes closed. Behind him, the wardrobe mistress was ironing his jacket. For the occasion, he had chosen a blue woollen suit with a yellow silk handkerchief in the breast pocket, a powder-blue tie with little floral patterns and simple oval cufflinks of rose gold.

  Stella Honer came into the dressing room without knocking, wearing the dark tailored suit in which she would go on air. She was followed by a distinguished-looking fifty-year-old man carrying a briefcase. ‘We’re ready to start,’ she said. She held out her hand. ‘Where’s the diary?’